


Across the Seas, Through the Winds

by targaryin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: :/, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Crown Prince Jon Snow, Elia and the children were murdered due to Aerys, F/M, Jonerys, No Beta we die like Lyanna Stark, Slow Burn, Talks of Prophecy, The Dany & Robb situation is brief and platonic! Do not fret!, The rating will bump up eventually!, Viserys is a bit... yeah, Winter will eventually come lol!, eventual magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryin/pseuds/targaryin
Summary: “There will be good and bad. But you are Daenerys of House Targaryen, and if anything, good or bad, you will endure. There is no other way.”And so, that is what she does, within it all, Dany withstands and endures the turbulent years of her late adolescence. But there is solace to be found, especially in one Jon Targaryen.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Viserys Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen & Rhaegar Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen & Robb Stark (platonic!), Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 36
Kudos: 73





	Across the Seas, Through the Winds

**Author's Note:**

> This has been something I’ve been catering to for the past month. I have quite a few ideas for it, and it will take time for it to come out the way I imagine. I only hope that anyone who reads will be patient with me along the way, especially during these strange times. 
> 
> If you are reading this, hello and thank you for being interested! This will be a journey and I’m only trying to become better at writing. Please do leave a comment on this nearly 15k introduction. Lol, I know it’s a lot but bear with me, I just couldn’t stop! ❤️

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen remembers the day her life changed. It was a conspicuous autumn day. She woke that day, seven-and-ten years young, with the feeling of _something_ coming. Down to her very bones. And she was unsurprised to find herself correct when a shy, young, handmaiden rushed to her chambers with a message. The king had summoned her and she just _knew_ — this was it. 

So on that unassuming autumn day, Daenerys or better yet, Dany, readies herself to meet with the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Heavy heart and all. 

With each and every step through the marbled corridor of the royal apartments that draws her nearer to her brother, Dany’s heart thuds sickeningly in her chest. She knows what this is, what this must mean. 

She supposes that she just had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dany felt it in every one of Rhaegar’s secretive glances her way when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. She knew it when Viserys and Arianne came up from their reclusive stay in Sunspear just a few days past— instead heading for their home at Summerhall like they were rumored to have been in the process of doing. The way the former would look at her, as if he were sorry for her, was more than enough to rouse her suspicions.

And most dauntingly, she knows it _now_ , under the weight of Ser Barristan’s heavy stare on her back as his steps echo hers. 

Her stomach is twisting like snarled vines and her hands are clammy as she rounds the final corner and Ser Jaime’s golden hair comes into view, standing sentry at his king’s door. 

_It is my duty,_ she has to remind herself, and not for the first time. _You were born for this_.

And yet, her hand hovers over the oak door as she hesitates. In her periphery, she thinks she sees Ser Jaime give her a look of pity but she can’t be sure because his face is void of emotion when she turns to him. 

Dread and shame rush through her in equal measures and it only makes her feel that much more hopeless.

When she knocks Ser Jaime heralds her presence with a loud, _“Princess Daenerys, Your Grace,”_ and then she is admitted entry from the muffled sound of the king’s voice. Her older brother’s voice. Dany straightens her back and tries to strengthen her resolve. 

If she is to face this, she will do it as a true Targaryen princess, and that is with her head held high.

Sunlight streams into her vision when she opens the door and steps into the fine quarters. It surprises her. Rhaegar likes to work with the blood red curtains drawn most times, preferring candlelight when he looks over various parchments. For some reason, the warm rays of light only serve to darken her mood even further.

“Dany, come sit and have a cup of wine with your brother, would you?” comes the silky voice of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, always so melodic and welcome to her ears. Only now it makes her want to shy away...or spit fire. 

She pinches herself. _It’s your duty_. 

Doing as he bid, she sits in front of his desk with her hands folded demurely in her lap as she watches him pour two glasses full of Dornish red. It is rather early in the day to be drinking, but she holds her tongue — Rhaegar rarely does drink. And when he does, it’s only for causes of celebration. 

The gripping nausea clenching in her gut is something she tries to ignore. 

She decides to focus on him instead. Usually, the sight of him with his long, glossy, silver hair — just like hers — and his refined features makes her happy. Usually, she finds solace in his warm presence at her side. 

Today, though, she tastes ashes in her mouth. 

“You’re quiet,” Rhaegar murmurs, pushing a glass towards her and keeping one for himself. She takes it at once, hurriedly gulping the rich liquid to keep from speaking. If he notices how tightly her hand grips the cup, he says nothing about it. “In fact, Dany, you’ve been quiet — what — all week? That is not like you at all.” 

This time he chooses to drink and so, she feels like she had to speak. 

Wary, Dany takes the cup from her lips. It wavers in the air. “Sorry, I-I don’t know what has gotten into me,” she says tremulously, shooting a nervous glance his way. 

Over the brim of his cup, his eyes — dark and indigo — narrow just slightly. They are usually kind when looking upon her, for she knows he loves her just as she does him. But right now, his gaze is awfully shrewd. A sight she isn’t familiar with. She shifts in her seat and brings the wine to her lips once more just for something to busy herself with.

So her eyes dance around the room, skating around Rhaegar’s broadened figure and taking in the large sunlit bookcase just behind him — the way his favorite reads seem to stick out just a little more than the others. Something about the first Long Night sticks out the furthest. But what interest should she have in that? She looks away, narrowly misses meeting his gaze again as her eyes drop to the surface of his desk. That is when she sees it. 

Her heart rate picks up once more at the sight of a letter, its grey wax seal broken open. 

She freezes. 

“Oh, that’s alright,” Rhaegar drawls, his voice a pleasant purr even through the still air, “although, I’m sure Viserys has taken offense. You know how pouty he gets when he doesn’t get his attention.” 

Dany rolls her eyes at that, subconsciously relaxing a bit even with the mention of her nuisance of a brother. “He has Arianne. That is more than enough attention for anyone. And besides, our good-sister is carrying our nephew or niece. Viserys does not need my attention.” _But he seems to require it all the same._ “He will have all the attention in the world within a couple of moons.” 

Rhaegar chuckles, the sound making her look closely at his face. The mirth there makes him look so young. It’s a wistful thought, to wonder what he was like before becoming _this_. A formidable, relatively young king. 

This is all Dany has known him as. She wonders what Viserys remembers of their brother before the war, before their family nearly saw their end. She’s heard stories. Of how the younger, former Prince of Dragonstone used to go out into the lower bowels of the city and sing in the streets. Ser Barristan told her his voice was so lovely and entrancing that he even used to earn coin for it. 

It makes her a touch upset that he doesn’t sing anymore. Perhaps that’s just another thing that seemed to be taken from him. His love for song and all those idyllic romanticisms that incited war and bloodshed.

_There isn’t much room for that when you’re king,_ Dany sadly thinks.

“As much as I think you are right, he still gets in his little petulant ways when it comes to you. And besides —” Rhaegar leans forward in his seat to pick up the letter. Dany keeps very still as she watches him read the contents. There’s a satisfied gleam in his eye, “— he came all this way for you, Dany.”

_It’s your duty_. Her grips tightens around her cup. “Oh? Why is that?” she asks, already knowing and hoping that the tremor she thought she heard in her voice was imaginary. 

“We are going north, sister,” Rhaegar tells her, like he’s imparting a secret. He looks away from the letter and stares into her eyes, still so shrewd. 

_Where north?_ she wants to ask, but she knows. She saw the grey wax, the wolf head imprinted in it. 

She just cannot believe it. 

Instead, she says, resigned and heavy, “To Winterfell. To the Starks.” 

“Exactly. Very astute, Dany.” His eyes glitter as he places the letter back on the desk. The tips of his fingers trace the rim of his glass thoughtfully as he studies her. “How do you feel about it?”

She sucks in a breath, slightly overwhelmed. “What — The North?” 

He shakes his gleaming silver head. “No, you’ve never been north, so I doubt you’ll have any true feelings about it.” _Yes, I’ve never been because you keep me from there,_ Dany can’t help but think snidely.

It used to bother her how she could never go anywhere north of The Neck. Rhaegar rarely restricted her when it came to her coming and going, encouraging her to see as much of these lands their family have ruled over for nearly three centuries. 

She’s been to Dorne to see the Red Mountains and has visited the Water Gardens on occasion, traveled to the Reach and the Stormlands many times. Dragonstone is never an unfamiliar place either, for it is her birthplace. As a young girl, Rhaegar even took her to Oldtown where she saw the Citadel and the old Starry Sept. 

_But never the North_. 

She guesses she understands now. She was being hidden from her betrothed. Although Viserys was never hidden from Arianne. The woman had practically lived in King’s Landing and was encouraged to interact with Viserys from a young age. That was way before Arianne was wed to her brother. But Rhaegar always kept Dany close since she was nothing but a red-faced squalling babe. Her and Jon. And she knows that as much as he loves his son — his actual living, breathing child — Rhaegar loves her as well and considers her more of a daughter than a sister.

“You’ll form your own opinions when you get there,” Rhaegar goes on to say, “what I meant was — being betrothed to Robb Stark.” 

And there it is. She blinks rapidly, hearing his name makes her mind race with so many thoughts — of Jon, her Crown Prince nephew, half Targaryen and half Stark — and questions. The first being: _what will Jon think?_ And then another barrage of them flitting through her brain.

_Would he rejoice? Congratulate her? Would he oppose the match? Would it make him feel strange? Or nothing at all, as most things seem to do?_

Rhaegar is watching her, keenly waiting for her answer. She has to push those anxieties down to speak. “I suppose that is... _fine_ ,” she finally says. Rhaegar frowns slightly, probably expecting more but it’s a challenge to find the appropriate words to surmise how she truly feels. 

“Only fine?” His tone is unimpressed. 

Dany backtracks quickly. “I am sure you worked hard to secure the match. I have heard that Lord Stark can be rather…” She struggles on how to describe the faceless man she’s only ever heard about from Rhaegar, Jon, and even Lord Arryn alike. “... _prickly_ when it comes to his children.” Maybe not the best descriptor for such a man renowned for his impenetrable honor, but it’s the best she can come up with. 

At this, Rhaegar snorts, rolling his eyes as he leans back more comfortably in his chair. “Among other things. But I am sure you’ll form your opinion of him as you will his homelands. If anything, you may come to favor him — it would do you well if you did…” 

She thinks, for a moment there, Rhaegar sounds quite petulant. It amuses her just a little. 

“But...I also have questions,” she ventures gently, wanting to tread carefully because even if this is her dependable big brother, and even if he dotes on her, Rhaegar is also her _king_. Despite the initial fire in her veins when she came to the conclusion that Rhaegar must’ve found a match for her, she doesn’t want to step out of line too much. 

Lucky for her, Rhaegar is a wise king that always listens to the concerns of everyone around him. Even her. “Go on, then,” he waves a hand, lifting his glass back to his lips with the other, “I’d like to hear what you have to say.” 

Dany sighs heavily, feeling the weight of his stare as he drinks quietly. She twists her mouth in thought before asking, “Why the North, and why Robb Stark? We already have ties to House Stark through Jon, so why not another great house — perhaps the Tyrells?” 

Rhaegar must’ve found something she said amusing because he snorts, quite loudly, into his cup. She frowns, setting hers down on the desk and folding her arms over her chest, feeling unsure. 

“Oh, no, never the Tyrells,” he shakes his head furiously, “Olenna would gloat until the end of her days — having been close to marrying a Targaryen herself. If one of her grandsons were to marry _my_ sister?” He pauses to scoff under his breath. A quiet sound. “She’d never stop. And besides, they aim much too high, those Tyrells.” Rhaegar shakes his head once more, most likely thinking of Mace Tyrell, Master of Coin and constant annoyance to her brother. The man may be a thorn in the king’s side, but there is no denying the wealth of the Tyrells. They are a constant help, bringing in a much needed food supply from the green lands of the Reach to the city on a frequent basis. “I like Olenna but no grandson of hers will have you as their lady wife.” 

Dany isn’t quite sure what to feel of that. If anything, she’s heard that Willas Tyrell was a good man, even crippled he was kind with many wits about him. And better yet, he wasn’t a bumbling fool like his father. Loras — Margaery’s favorite brother even if she won’t admit to it out loud — is known to be a great fighter, a knight, and handsome; the unfavorable rumors about his preference in bed partners might have dissuaded Rhaegar, though. 

“And she _definitely_ needs to stop sniffing around my son and having her granddaughter flounce around him,” Rhaegar continues with a pointed finger. “She can’t have him for her Margaery, either.” 

And that much, Dany agrees with. Margaery is lovely company for _her_ to keep, but not Jon. There are motivations at play for the Tyrell girl. So seemingly innocent and charming to boot, but she is entirely too much like her ambitious grandmother. Jon never outright refuses Margaery either and she doesn’t know what to think of that — only that it made her more than a little agitated whenever she saw Margaery hanging off of her nephew’s arm and sharing whatever tall tale she had with him. 

Margaery is the daughter of a great lord who sits on the Small Council and still a friend, so of course she deserves to marry well. Dany just doesn’t think it needs to be _that_ well. She is glad that Rhaegar is in accordance with her. It lessens the sting of her future marriage. 

“I see…” Dany says at length, and because Rhaegar _did_ say she could ask him anything, her curiosity gets the better of her. “Who do you suppose will marry Jon?”

Rhaegar’s face clouds over. “That is my concern, Daenerys,” is all he says, but it sounds a lot to her like a warning. It is expected. He always gets so defensive over him but it doesn’t make her any less curious or feel any less annoyed at how snappish he sounds. 

The words rush out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Are you using this trip as a way to wrangle Jon back down to the capital?” 

The bold question makes Rhaegar bristle. His broadened shoulders tense and his eyes become even more dark. For a beat of silence, he looks at her as if she has two heads, and then looks away the next, his head slowly shaking as he repeats her words in a disbelieving breath, “ _As a way to…_ ” Carefully, minutely, he sets the wine glass down; his eyes dart around in thought as he tries to gather his bearings from the harsh blow. 

Dany’s shoulders feel heavy, unsure of what to expect as she watches him warily. She should’ve known better. That was no way to go about her frustration, using his son against him. Jon lately has been a sore subject for him, she knows. Her nephew’s constant fleeing to the North — to his other family — had been frequent over the last couple of years. Rhaegar has always been sensitive even if he’s had to navigate through life after Aerys as a more hardened man. And there was nothing that was closer to his heart than Jon, his willful son — the only son he had left — who grew less and less interested in being anywhere near King’s Landing. 

_Anywhere near us_ … 

It doesn’t bother her much anymore — she’s learned to deal with that empty feeling of turning to seek him out and tell him something, as he was her _first_ true friend, only to remember that he was far away, most likely sharing little anecdotes about his day with someone else. 

The first few times Jon left the capital were the hardest; the earliest being seven year old Jon having the opportunity to foster at Winterfell and learn more closely of his Northern heritage. Before that, she and Jon were inseparable, and much of that was due to them being so close in age, only a matter of months apart. Rhaegar encouraged them to grow side-by-side and lit up at the prospect of his son and baby sister having dear friends in one another — she knew he often regretted Viserys not having any family members his age to play and keep company with. Not a day passed in the first six years of her life where Jon wasn’t there, wild dark curls spilling around his small face as he enticed her to get up to all sorts of mischief within the Red Keep or Dragonstone. 

Perhaps that is why when Jon set off for the North for the first time all those years ago, Dany, small and so determined, went into a rage when she caught wind of the news. 

She could remember Rhaegar’s shocked face as she burst into the Small Council chambers, Jon steadfast at her heels. Her brother watched her with an unreadable expression as she insisted that she _must_ be with Jon always, that dragons shouldn’t be alone. 

And she also remembers the way her little body wilted, when Jon managed to pluck up the nerve and speak over Rhaegar’s placating words. Dany was only six, but she remembers the rush of envy she felt when Jon told her he’d already been speaking with his cousin Robb through ravens, that they had already planned to swim in the hot springs of Winterfell and see the Wall together if they could (they did). 

Most of all, she remembers the pain in her chest when Jon boldly proclaimed in front of the whole council that he wasn’t just a dragon, but a wolf with a whole pack waiting for him in the North. 

When Jon looked at her — solemn-faced and glum, even so young — from the stern of his departing ship two days later, Dany felt as if a part of her were leaving and never coming back. And truly, things did change from that point onward. Jon was still the Jon she knew, but with every return from the North, he was little more different, a little less hers. 

It was a bitter reality to face, but she’s long since come to terms with Jon growing in a different way than she has. Away from her and the Targaryens, if need be. 

But she knows it breaks Rhaegar’s heart every time he’d watch his son ride off through the gates on yet another journey to Wintefell. And she knows why Rhaegar never stops him...

Lyanna. 

She never got to know the woman that enraptured her eldest brother in such a way. She wasn’t even born yet when young Lyanna died in the birthing bed, but she is all too familiar with the pain Rhaegar experiences with her memory whenever he recounts his late Northern queen. 

It is a different kind of pain than the failure he feels when he thinks of Elia and the brutality she faced in her last moments under the hands of Ser Gregor Clegane — Aerys’s cruel order as a way to get back at his son for conspiring against him. 

Once Rhaegar had told her that he blames himself, just like he does with Elia, for what happened to Lyanna. She remembers the agony in his voice as he told her that if he never would’ve looked twice her way, never would’ve laid that crown of flowers on her lap and had been obsessed with prophecy, she would’ve lived. 

Even if war was brewing in the realm back then and was ultimately inevitable with such a cruel king on the throne, it never would’ve been as bloody with Stark, Baratheon, and Arryn against House Targaryen. 

Which is why she feels so much shame swirling in her chest as she sneaks furtive glances Rhaegar’s way. She opens her mouth to speak, only a syllable uttered, but is cut off by a disbelieving scoff that echoes through the room. 

“Dany. I would never need to _wrangle_ my son from somewhere. He comes to me when I command it. If I do choose to summon him here, he’ll do his duty and listen to his king.” There is defensive finality in the hard tone of his voice, but Dany can see the reluctant doubt crossing over his features as he considers the possibility of his words not being quite true. 

She wishes she never brought Jon up at all. 

Bowing her head in remorse, she apologizes in a low breath, “I never meant that he wouldn’t come home, Your Grace. Or want to. Forgive me.” 

A tense moment of silence passes, Dany studying the intricate stitch work of her pale yellow gown until she hears Rhaegar blow out a puff of breath. All at once, she knows his anger has passed. “Oh, that is alright. I suppose you are just as curious as I am.” At this she frowns, raising her head to look at her brother with suspicion. His brows raise in answer. 

Another question starts to nag at her. “Do you not speak with him — send ravens, I mean?” 

“Oh, I send ravens, to be sure, but…” he trails off, glancing away to stare out the windows. The rays of light shine upon him, and it’s the glare that shows her how undeniably troubled his eyes are. “My son has never been one of many words, I’m afraid.” 

Worry clenches almost painfully in her gut. Rhaegar won’t say it, and he doesn’t need to because Dany almost instantly comes to the conclusion herself: it seems that Jon simply isn’t responding to any of his father’s missives. And it becomes clear to her as to why Rhaegar has put this trip into motion — other than her impending betrothal to the Warden of the North’s heir. 

_He longs for his son,_ Dany thinks, a guilty feeling crawling in her chest, wanting to curse herself for throwing it in his face. 

Dany reaches over the desk to grab his hand. His hardened face softens at her attempt of reassurance. “I am sure he will have much to tell you when we reach Winterfell.” His hand squeezes hers in silent gratitude. 

She makes sure to squeeze back, once, twice, before settling back into her chair. He mirrors her actions and looks upon her over the rim of his glass. The contemplative silence stretching between them makes her think of the details of this new journey. Of her impending new life. 

“You have another question, Dany, so speak.” 

There are many questions still, but where to start...she does not know. 

Some are too heavy for her to ask and she fears the answer she would get if she would dare to inquire how he could sequester her away to a cold wasteland for the rest of her life. Has she done something so wrong? She doesn’t think she has, but she’d be willing to atone for whatever the reason for _this_ is. 

Rhaegar looks at her in askance, but instead of voicing those worries she swallows them down and settles for practicality: “When do we depart, Your Grace?” 

“Preparations have been made for a procession and that is set to leave in two days. Lord Arryn will hold the city until we return.” 

Her spirits lift at the sound of that. A progress! 

That would take longer than simply sailing to White Harbor. Not too much time, but traveling that far up the kingsroad would be nearly a fortnight in measure — not to mention the stops at various castles and keeps she was sure Rhaegar would take as he often did during his yearly progresses. 

It wouldn’t prolong Winterfell by much but it would be enough — mayhaps little under a month. Her mood vastly improves with this knowledge. Dany relaxes, her back no longer ramrod straight with tension. “And will you be having any travel companions this time around, brother mine?” 

“Why, you, of course, sister mine.” Rhaegar says ever sweetly, the wine loosening him. 

She huffs out disbelieving laughter. “No, I meant — a friend, perhaps. I think I shall bring along Tyene and see if we take to the cold together.” 

One thing she was certain of, she was definitely not asking Margaery to accompany her just so she could simper in her nephew’s presence. Tyene was flirtatious in nature, as were most of the Sand Snakes for they took after their father in that most of all, but she never crossed that line. Only once — an instance where there was a sly, salacious comment made in passing to the prince which made even him turn red — and Dany had been quick to reprimand her for it. After the earful Dany gave her, the bastard girl never spoke to the prince in that nature since. 

“A friend?” Rhaegar scrunches his nose. “Does a king ever truly have any friends?” 

Dany tuts in answer. “You have many friends, Rhaegar,” she retorts.

“Ser Arthur does not count nor do any of the Sworn Brothers. They serve me,” he sighs before launching into one of his thoughtful, on-a-whim, tirades. “There is a certain dynamic between a king and his sworn swords, or anyone who was made to serve him. A certain power imbalance, Dany. Of course, one could say that Ser Oswell or Ser Jaime are my friends. They listen to me and I have their confidence, to be sure.” Dany finds herself frowning before he can even finish, and this, he takes note of. He chooses to backpedal just a bit. “Ah, I guess what I am trying to say is — the men of my esteemed Kingsguard are already made to defer to my every whim, so why only merely refer to them as friends when they are tasked to give their lives to me? Is that not bigger than friendship?” 

She blinks once, twice, before holding up a hand. “Forgive me, Rhaegar, I am sure there is a point you are making here, but I only simply asked if you are bringing along travel companions.”

Rhaegar in turn blinks owlishly as well before looking at his glass, surveying it suspiciously. “This is why I try not to drink as often,” he says at length. She lets out a short laugh, quick to bring a hand to muffle her amusement when he looks at her in offense. “Do not laugh at me,” he orders, but she can hear the tremor in his voice, see the laugh he’s also fighting off in the quirk of his mouth. “Seven hells, this wine,” he shakes his head, setting the glass down and pushing it away. He laughs with her. 

A knock comes at the door, echoing through the room, and then once again Ser Jaime’s voice, “ _Prince Oberyn Martell, Your Grace.”_ Dany thinks the man sounds entirely too tortured this early in the day. 

“Enter,” booms Rhaegar’s voice but not before he laughs again, glancing at her with mirth. 

With a sweep of burnt orange silks and yellow finery does the infamous Red Viper of Dorne come in, a handsome older man with inky black hair sharpened with a widow’s speak and glittering, smoky brown eyes. When he sees them huddled over in laughter and then the wine, does he grin so wide. “Ah! I see we are celebrating, yes?” 

“Not for much longer or I am afraid our king will have to turn in early today,” Dany supplies teasingly, tucking her lips in her mouth when Rhaegar narrows his eyes at her. 

Prince Oberyn raises his eyebrows, giving the king a once over. “Oh?” 

“Yes, Oberyn,” Rhaegar sighs, a resigned sound. “Dany is right. I fear with aging I don’t take to wine as I once did.” 

The prince makes a tsking noise, walking over — always so elegantly, Dany cannot help thinking — and taking a seat next to her. He lounges in the chair like it was made for him. “It would be a shame if you turned in early today, brother. It seems there are...lions on the prowl.” 

Rhaegar straightens up at this, frowning deeply. Dany already knows what this must mean. “Lord Tywin, again?” When Oberyn smirks, Rhaegar’s jaw tightens. “He just doesn’t give up, does he?” 

“Well, when the boon in question is future queendom I suppose he can hardly be blamed.” 

Dany stands, sensing this is a conversation she has no part in even if she does have her opinions on the matter. “Perhaps I shall take my leave?” 

Oberyn throws up his hands, asking whether his presence was that unpleasant at the same time Rhaegar beckons her to sit back down. “You are of House Targaryen and you are now privy to your engagement — this concerns you as well, Dany.” 

She claims her seat once more, warily now, eyeing a brooding Rhaegar. “I am sorry, but did you not just tell me that the matter of Jon’s prospects does not concern me?” 

This, Rhaegar does look ashamed of. “I suppose I did. Forgive me, sister. That wasn’t polite. I know you care for Jon as do I and it seems that Lord Tywin has come down from his Rock to wave little Myrcella’s hand in our faces once again.”

“Lannisters,” Oberyn says with malice. His black eyes glitter with contempt. “They are never satisfied.” 

Dany finds that statement coming from him quite comical. The Martells were satisfied with Viserys being married to Arianne, but only for a time. Then they asked for more. The very reason why Oberyn sits on the council was to abate Dorne. There was only so much Rhaegar could do for past transgressions. 

“I suppose, though, that Myrcella is a Baratheon and that the match would do more good than harm,” relents Rhaegar, though the words seem to dissatisfy him anyway. 

This makes Dany feel sour. Surely he couldn’t be entertaining this? 

“If I may speak,” she starts, looking between the two men before receiving the permission to continue, “I understand why you would consider it, Your Grace, but having not only the granddaughter of Tywin Lannister but _also_ , the daughter of _Cersei Lannister_ as queen would be a disservice to the realm, in my opinion. No matter how unlike the girl is to her family.” Because after all, Myrcella was a sweet maiden and had been to court a few times over the years to be one of Dany’s companions. Another thing to quench the treacherous motivations of Lord Tywin. Although that just made the man more hungry. 

To her expectation, Oberyn nods in agreement. “‘Tis is true, sweet sister. You’d be surrounded by lions,” he says to Rhaegar, “and that is not good for anyone.”

“There is something you two seem to forget. I cannot overlook the girl’s parentage.”

Dany and Oberyn look at each in silent disbelief, the worst kept secret in all of the Seven Kingdoms looming in their shared gaze. 

She thinks of all the times Ser Jaime has made visits to Storm’s End and, funnily enough, the conception of the three Baratheon children — each of them born with the Lannister golden hair and green eyes — all coincide with the golden knight’s routine trips. Most importantly, Lady Cersei always seems to call on her brother when Lord Stannis is away. It is a mystery how Stannis seems to not confront this, whether he truly does not suspect anything or he simply does not care, desperate for heirs since it’s been said he isn’t the most...virile of men. 

Rhaegar catches on and huffs in exasperation, collapsing back in his seat. “What am I to do…” 

“You are right, Your Grace,” a sly grin is spread over the Dornishman’s face, “her parentage is certainly _not_ to be overlooked.”

Her brother clenches his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his aristocratic nose. “Oberyn, you are supposed to impart wisdom of some kind. Not terrible jests.” 

The prince does not look sorry at all and simply leans forward to grab a glass and help himself to the wine. Dany takes pity on Rhaegar, noticing how very tired he looks right now. “Look at this way: we are set to leave in two days and you will only have to deal with Lord Tywin for that small amount of time.”

“And what an exhausting couple of days it shall be,” he bemoans, but turns to her with a small smile. “Thank you, anyway. I have asked enough of you for today and unloaded much more, you may take your leave.” She nods, standing just as Rhaegar looks at a drinking Oberyn with skepticality. “You might want to forgo that, we have a council meeting soon.” 

Oberyn snorts into his cup. “Then I wager I might need it. Pycelle will talk and talk about those damned spigots for an age, and then Mace will complain about dipping into the coffers. And now that Viserys is here, I am sure he will abandon my niece to have his say on whatever he finds to talk about.”

Dany is nearly at the door when Rhaegar groans dreadfully. “It is an important matter. Clean water and all that,” he says diplomatically, no matter how it displeases him. She finds it amusing that he ignores the mention of Viserys altogether. “Aren’t you tired of this city always smelling of horseshit?”

“Horseshit is a rosy fragrance compared to whatever comes from Flea Bottom.” 

“Would you like getting away from it for awhile — Dany seems to think I require a traveling companion.” She halts at the door with a hand on the knob, turning just as Oberyn hums, mulling it over. 

“You should accompany us, brother,” she says, “If I can manage to find her, I will be inviting your Tyene. She would be delighted to see you come.” 

Oberyn swishes his wine around, considering this. “Much of the world has seen me, but never Winterfell. Mayhaps I should look upon Lord Stone-Face again, it has been much too long.” 

“Lord Stone-Face?” she scrunches her nose. Oberyn looks entirely indifferent. Rhaegar is exasperated. 

“You’ll see for yourself, princess. And you best get used to it, you’ll be seeing that mug for a long time...if those _old gods_ are kind. Or cruel. Opinions vary on the man.” 

The man meaning Ned Stark, she surmises. It seemed some things never changed; Oberyn’s dislike for the Starks, in particular, and she knows that is a tricky subject. The king’s son and heir is half Stark, and no matter how the Dornish prince may feel about the muddled misunderstandings of the past — the mess that was Rhaegar and Elia and Lyanna — she thinks _he_ best get used to _that_. 

Rhaegar sighs heavily, fixing his good-brother with a stern glare. “I will not tolerate any disrespect towards Lord Stark in his home, Oberyn. If you feel that your certain…reservations will get in the way of any productivity, you are always welcome to stay here and entertain my court.” His eyes cut to her, brows slightly raised. “Dany, you may go,” he reminds her, a touch softer than he was speaking to Oberyn. 

And so she does, exiting the room and stepping out into the corridor. She finds Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime in the midst of a conversation, going over who shall accompany the king north. When the door shuts behind her with a click, both men freeze and look her way. She thinks they both look rather cautious. 

“I am fine,” she tells them, scoffing when their stances become less rigid once they determine she is telling the truth. She breezes past them, Ser Barristan dogging her heels. The silence is thick with tension as they traverse through Maegor’s and it gets to the point where Dany halts, whipping around to accost the old knight. “Whatever there is you need to say, Ser, please do it. I can feel you fretting at my back.”

Ser Barristan shifts on his feet, his silver plate gleaming impressively even in the shadowy halls of the holdfast. “Princess, forgive me, I only wonder how you are...taking the news.” 

“I meant it when I said I was fine,” she stresses. It is sweet how the old knight cares for her well-being but, ultimately, unnecessary. It still is a cause for anxiety but she doesn’t need the whole keep to whisper about how unsure she feels; Varys could be anywhere, the sneaky man he is. 

Lowering her voice, she adds, “Rhaegar has his reasons for this. I will do as he commands. Is there anything else, Ser?”

If Ser Barristan doesn’t believe her, he won’t say, and he is seemingly relieved with her attitude. “No, princess.” 

Dany nods. “Very well. Come. I would like to find my brother or Tyene.”

And without another word the two of them continue their journey throughout the keep. She greets whoever crosses her path — servants and lords and ladies alike — as she makes her way outside into the blazing heat of King’s Landing. The gardens might be her best bet, so she makes her way there except it is not Tyene or Viserys she comes across. She is pleased to see Arianne sitting on a bench under the sun surrounded by all the lively green of the gardens. Her round belly and the mass of her inky waves are visible even feet away. 

“Arianne!” she shouts, her feet picking up their pace when the woman tries to awkwardly get to her feet. “No, no, sit back down! I’ll join you.” 

Arianne is sitting comfortably again when Dany approaches her. Her olive skin glows under the sun and her face that has become more round with her pregnancy spreads with a smile. She is a vision in red silks that bare her arms and her favorite jeweled tiara that rests atop her head of black ringlets. 

“Thank the gods. I don’t know if I would be able to get up, anyway,” her good-sister says, relieved. She pats the spot next to her. “Come sit and tell me about your talk with Rhaegar.” 

Dany figures there aren’t too many people strolling around the gardens right now. She sighs, plopping down next to Arianne. Ser Barristan walks a few feet away and lets them have their privacy. “You’ve heard about my being summoned, then.” 

“Vis wouldn’t stop talking about it. Pacing his chambers back and forth.” The Dornish princess shakes her head, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. “I had to get out of there and get some fresh air. Or I would be stirring mad. If only we could go back to Summerhall…”

_Yes_ , Dany agrees silently, _that is where Viserys belongs_. She knows Arianne is happier there, anyway, and it is much closer to Sunspear than King’s Landing. And what a pity it is that Rhaegar spent years of his reign rebuilding the ashened remains of the summer Targaryen seat for Viserys to neglect it any chance he could. He put so much thought and effort into the reconstruction of his birthplace once he secured the match between Viserys and Arianne, claiming that Viserys shall be the Prince of Summerhall while Jon is the Prince of Dragonstone. 

She thinks that is funny, neither of them spend much time at the castles they hold — Jon more content in the North and Viserys in the crownlands. 

But Dany frowns at the mention of Viserys’s seemingly bad mood, knowing how her brother can be when he gets all in a fluster. “Is it that bad?” 

“Miserable,” Arianne groans, her brown eyes rolling back into her head. “He claims that the wolves have taken you. Winterfell should be enjoyable.”

The sarcasm makes her laugh despite how bad she feels for the poor woman. She doesn’t know who is more moody out of the two of them — the actual pregnant woman or Viserys. “I am sorry, truly. I’ll have to find him and speak with him later after I manage to get a hold of your cousin.”

“Ah,” the Martell woman smiles brilliantly at the mention of her cousin. It is known that Arianne views the Sand Snake as a sister. “Tyene said she was visiting the Sept of Baelor today. She did not tell you?” 

Dany shrugs. “She does not have to tell me _everything_ even if she is my lady. I shudder to know why she even keeps up the masquerade of innocent septa-to-be.” Innocence is one thing that girl is far from. “I only wished to formally invite her with me to Winterfell.”

“Worry not. She’ll be coming. She’s already complained to me about how itchy furs are.”

The two of them laugh. Dany imagines Tyene bundled up in furs suitable for the hash cold of the North, with a dissatisfied frown on her sweet face. Their laughter dies down after some time and they fall into an enjoyable silence. Arianne is someone Dany has always felt comfortable with, having known her since she was a small girl. She only has brothers, but in truth, Dany knows she has a sister as well in the Dornish woman. 

“So…” Arianne breaks the silence after a while, her voice lilting in a teasing manner. “Robb Stark, eh?”

“Robb Stark,” Dany repeats on a sigh. 

“I have heard that he is rather handsome — having the Tully coloring rather than the Stark. They say he looks more Southron than anything.” 

Dany frowns. “Just because he has Tully features doesn’t mean he is any more handsome than those with Stark looks. Jon is quite good looking.” 

And looks more Stark than Targaryen most times. She can see Rhaegar in her nephew, of course — their shared tall stature and overall solemn dispositions, the way their noses seem to curve in that same elegant way and their nearly black eyes, although Jon’s have that grey hue and Rhaegar’s indigo. But she thinks if one didn’t know that Jon was Rhaegar’s son, he may be just mistaken as some Stark bastard. Sometimes she wonders how Rhaegar feels looking upon his son and finding that there is more wolf than dragon — and that goes for more than just his looks. 

Ned Stark’s influence is strong on her nephew. She thinks that if Ned Stark is anything like Jon, she might come to like her soon to be good-father no matter what Oberyn says. 

Arianne reels back, looking at her with amusement. “I was only repeating what Lord Varys told me. I didn't mean to cause offense to our prince. Or you.”

“You didn’t,” she starts saying defensively, “I was only just —”

Arianne cuts her off with a wry grin. “— saying, yes. You do that a lot, you know.” When Dany looks at her in askance, the dark haired princess follows up with a shrug. “Take up for Jon — even when he is not here. You are his most staunch defender, everyone knows it. He should be so lucky to have a champion in you. The sad thing is, I don’t think he notices. What a pity,” she adds with a sympathetic sigh. 

This makes Dany furrow her brows. She doesn’t think it is pitiful to stand up for family. Even if, like Ariane mentioned, they are not around to notice. She tries not to feel disheartened when she thinks of Jon’s absence. 

“Well, of course I care for Jon’s reputation, but I am no champion of his,” Dany responds with an edge in her voice. “He is my nephew and future king. The very person who will carry on our line.”

Something about what she said makes Arianne hiss. “In Dorne, we do not rely so heavily on men. If I had not married your brother, I would be my father’s heir and ruling Princess of Dorne one day. But now that goes to Quentyn,” and she can hear the contempt in the woman’s voice when she adds with dark eyes, “for better or worse.” 

It seems after all this time, Arianne still doesn’t think her younger brother is capable of ruling Dorne. Her good-sister never hints at being dissatisfied in her marriage to Viserys; it is very clear that she loves her brother and has ever since they were children, playing together in the Red Keep. But that doesn't mean that she couldn’t feel slighted or harbor ill feelings towards Prince Doran for looking over his eldest. She knows that Dorne is different and that House Martell isn’t impartial to ruling matriarchs. 

Dany also knows that Arianne hasn’t spoken to her father or Quentyn much since her wedding years ago in the Sept of Baelor. Ever since Viserys took off that maiden cloak of suns and spears and replaced it with the snarling three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, Arianne’s relationship with Prince Doran changed. No longer was she the little girl who dutifully followed her father around everywhere and hung onto his every word. She doesn’t even know if Arianne asks for word of Prince Doran’s sickness anymore. 

This troubles Dany, but not too much. Arianne still has a strong male presence in her life with Oberyn around, and Rhaegar has always doted on her as well — now more than ever with a new Targaryen on the way. 

She is pulled away from those thoughts when her hands are tightly clasped into Arianne’s. When she looks into Arianne’s face, usually spread wide with a sunny smile, it is stern and immovable. “Listen to me when I say this, Dany. I may not be the wisest person you know but I do know some things: Rhaegar, Jon, even Viserys aren’t the only ones with power in this family. _You_ have power, too. You always have had power and always will. Use it when you get to the North and show them that dragons — female or not — aren’t meek. Jon is the future king, yes, this is true. But he is not the only one who will continue the line,” and when she says this, Arianne presses their clasped hands to her swollen belly. There is a kick, which makes Dany gasp. Arianne smiles knowingly. “Right now, _I_ am the one who is continuing the Targaryen line. Not Jon. Not Rhaegar. And when you are heavy with child, some cold day in the North, know that _you_ are also carrying the line. We have power, too, Dany.”

There is another kick, her nephew or niece stirring with life at their mother’s passionate words. She feels herself stirring with it, too. When Dany takes her hands away from Arianne’s belly, it burns like a fire in her chest. 

She feels...hopeful.

Ariana must notice this change in Dany’s demeanor, there is a glimmer of pride in her dark brown eyes. “And do not be afraid of the wolves,” she adds with a smirk, “for all things bow to dragons in the very end.” 

And that of course, Dany has to agree with. 

* * *

Viserys Targaryen is a lot of things: brash, bold, sometimes overzealous, fierce, definitely entitled, and a bit crueler than the rest of them. But Dany never thought he was mad...until now. 

She is sitting in his solar as the sky is burning pink and orange with the sun setting behind her brother, who is pacing and ranting. 

Viserys is also handsome, but unlike Rhaegar or Jon, his features could look more menacing and harsh — especially when he is angry, and right now Viserys is furious. 

She wonders how true it is when people say he looks more and more like Aerys as time goes by, in his youth that was untouched by his madness. 

“I still cannot believe it!” he exclaims, spittle flying out his mouth. The cup of wine he has in hand threatens to spill over with every exaggerated movement he makes. Dany thinks it would be a shame if these fine rushes were to be stained. “Are you even _listening_ to me, Dany?” 

She sighs heavily, looking up at her brother’s red face with a roll of her eyes. “How could I not? You are yelling the keep down.” 

“Is this some game to you?! Why are you so calm about this?!”

Even though Arianne’s words from earlier had done much to soothe her nerves, she is still anxious about it all. If she were to let Viserys know, he would pounce on that fear and go another maniacal tirade. She doesn’t want that. She is already regretting seeking him out. 

“Viserys, this is not a game to me. This is my life — _my_ life. Not yours.” 

This sets him off again, his lilac eyes widening, fervid and wild as he curses Rhaegar for the umpteenth time this evening. 

She hates seeing him like this. It is rare, but when he gets like this, it is hard to make him see sense. And she is the only one who tries anymore. Rhaegar never had much patience for Viserys’s sour moods, either shutting down completely or coolly reprimanding him for his behavior. Arianne usually would try but now heavily pregnant, she doesn’t even bother — leaving him to figure out his issues on his own. 

For whatever reasons, Dany is the only one who can temper him now. She knows how bright and loving he can be. _He is just protective, is all_ , Dany tries to reassure herself as she watches him knock his foot on the leg of a chair and stumble, _and drunk_ . _So, so drunk._

Just like she told Ser Barristan earlier, Dany says in an even voice, “Rhaegar has his reasons, Viserys. You will see.”

He rounds on her, his hair a storm of silver. “Reasons?!” Viserys echoes incredulously. “What reason is there for you to be trapped in the North for the rest of your days — with the bloody _Starks_!” 

Dany throws up her hands, exasperated. “What is so wrong with the Starks? They are a great house and Jon’s family besides.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Viserys repeats with a sneer. Always so hateful when it comes to him. “This could be his doing. You know he has Rhaegar’s ear.”

She immediately shakes her head. “No. This isn’t Jon. This is Rhaegar’s decision.”

“This is all because of that damned war. My marriage to Arianne, your betrothal to a Stark...he is _mad_. We had nothing to do with that war!” 

And this, Dany cannot argue with. Rhaegar’s reign has been all about righting the wrongs of the past. Bringing in the very man who rose in rebellion against the Crown as his Lord Hand was the very first step. Many weren’t expecting Rhaegar to offer the position to Jon Arryn, and they definitely weren’t expecting Lord Arryn to accept either. Dany more than once has thought that if Lord Arryn had declined, Rhaegar would’ve simply asked Ned Stark next. 

“He would have you rutting with wolves and having pups to run around the North —”

She has to stop him before he gets ahead of himself. “Viserys, _stop_!” The raising of her voice has him properly chastened. “Enough of this, please. You will worry yourself to death!”

A chasm of silence stretches between them, awkward and uncomfortable. 

After a while, Viserys scoffs. “The council meeting was a sham today,” he tells her, wisely changing the subject. “Not only was there talk of your marriage, but Lord Arryn brought up Jon and his prospects.”

She cannot help the way she leans forward at the mention of this. “Yes, there was talk of that when I met with Rhaegar.” Eyeing Viserys with suspicion, she asks, “What was said?” 

“Interested, sweet sister?” his voice purrs in equal measures of amusement and annoyance. He doesn’t like when she takes an interest in anything to do with Jon. “Well, listen close,” Finally stopping his maddening pacing, Viserys takes a seat opposite her, the wine having him ready to spill all his secrets. “Lord Tywin came into the meeting today, to the surprise of absolutely no one. I swear, that old man still believes _he_ is Hand of the King, but anyways — Tywin went on and on about his precious granddaughter, claiming that she is what would be best for the realm and all that. Half of the men instantly agreed, mainly because they still fear Lord Tywin but our brother wasn’t having it, neither was Oberyn.”

Dany suspected that the Warden of the West would make an appearance at the meeting today, but to be so bold, showing up unannounced and outwardly offering his granddaughter like cattle to be sold… She finds it rather distasteful, no matter Myrcella’s surname and the influence of her grandfather. 

She knows Rhaegar, if he is pushed and pushed, he will only do the opposite. It is quite sad for Myrcella — the girl doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Lord Tywin was promptly dismissed after a thinly veiled threat of dragons needing the might of lions, or else…” 

_Even more distasteful_ , Dany thinks. “He wants Lannister blood on the throne,” she states the obvious. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be _Baratheon_ blood on the throne, now would it?” her brother smirks into his cup, quite proud of himself for the quip. 

She isn’t in the mood to laugh, though. Lord Tywin becomes more of a problem as the years pass and she doesn’t care for the way he comes to court and goes as he pleases. He also has the resources to incite something treasonous if he really felt slighted. 

“Myrcella has the Baratheon name, and she deserves to marry well,” Dany says, ignoring the way Viserys hisses in disagreement. “I shall think on this, for I do like the girl and care to see her happy. She needs a good match, if it is not to be Jon.” 

“It won’t.” Viserys grunts. “There will be no lions in my city.”

_It is not your city, brother_ , she wants to say. _Stop pretending to things you do not have_. _It will only get you in a world of trouble._

But Viserys would never listen to that. She can only hope that her brother will pay attention and be grateful for the things he has — his wife, his unborn child, his health, and his castle of Summerhall. That is where he should be, and not butting in on Small Council meetings and pretending to play the heir while Jon is away. 

Everyone can see it for what it is. Viserys wants far too much and that is a cause for concern. Tywin Lannister isn’t the only one who has his resources…

Before she can linger long on that troublesome thought, a knock at the door breaks her out of her reverie. She looks over her shoulder at the sound and back to Viserys with a raised brow. “Expecting a dinner guest?”

“Quiet, you,” he says with no real heat before looking at the door. “Enter!” 

She’s surprised he doesn’t ask who it is first, he is cautious in that way — never allowing many into his personal chambers. 

And she is even more surprised at who comes in, blonde head bowed demurely. “My prince —” comes the voice of Tyene Sand, who comes up short at the sight of Dany sitting there. “Oh, princess — good evening.”

“What are you doing here, Tyene?” 

The Sand Snake doesn’t get a chance to answer her question because Viserys stands to his feet at once, chastising her immediately. “Bastard! I told you to stop coming here when you look for my wife! Search elsewhere!”

Usually quite venomous when talked to in such a manner, Tyene blinks owlishly as a faint rosy blush colors her cheeks. “Yes, my prince, I didn't mean to disturb you and the princess. I only thought my cousin might be here, sharing dinner with you.” 

“Well, as you can see,” his arm sweeps around the room, corners of his mouth tightened in a condescending smile, “she is not. Remove yourself.” Tyene visibly wilts at Viserys’s cruel tone of voice, shooting her a quick glance before she bows out of the room, muttering another apology on the way.

Dany turns on him with a fiery gaze. “You could stand to be a little kinder to my handmaiden — Oberyn’s daughter.” 

“That woman is too presumptuous,” is all Viserys says in answer. 

“You know Arianne cares for her,” and at the mention of his wife does Viserys calm down a little. 

He looks at the door, where Tyene had just disappeared. “Oh, I know. She invited her to Winterfell, the wild thing.”

Dany looks over her shoulder, glancing at the closed door before turning to Viserys with a frown. “Do you not think it strange that Ser Oswell said nothing of her coming here — to announce her arrival, at the very least?” 

Her brother shrugs, taking his seat once more. “Perhaps the old man is tired, think nothing of it, Dany.” And how could she, when Viserys immediately goes on to petulantly ask, “Now, I have heard this Robb Stark is quite practiced with a sword —” And of course he _has_. She knows he must've accosted Lord Varys for every bit of information he could get on the man. “— do you think he could best me?” 

She groans in response. This will be a long night, talking of wolves and what is to come. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The two days pass quietly. It is unsettling just how calm everything and everyone is. There are rumors as to why they are traveling to Winterfell and Margaery Tyrell tries to pry information from her with sweet smiles and honeyed words. Dany doesn’t budge. Rhaegar was adamant that only those who need to know the true reason for their journey, already do. 

For all anyone knows, the king is simply going on a progress that ends at Winterfell. With no one knowing of her impending betrothal to Robb Stark, as she expects, whispers travel around. Some say that the king is finally coming to bring his son back to the capital (as she did, but she learned her lesson). Others are saying — quite boldly, in her opinion — that Rhaegar finally mustered up the courage to visit Winterfell so that he could pray over late Lyanna’s tomb in the dark crypts. But the one that makes Dany raise her brow, is the rumor going around that her brother seeks a new Hand and that man is Lord Stark. 

She knows what people say of Lord Arryn: he is too old, that his days helping the king rule are done and that he wishes to retire back to the Vale to spend the rest of his days with his wife, Lysa, and their sickly son, Robin. 

Honestly, she doesn’t know how much truth there is to that. But she suspects if that _were_ true, and if Lord Stark did accept, Jon would linger longer in the city and have less reasons to house at Winterfell. 

She just can’t be quite sure of her brother’s intentions and it is just as they are coming upon the Wintertown three weeks later, that she regards her dear brother with suspicion. 

Surely he wouldn’t ask Lord Stark to come to King’s Landing — the very place where his father was burned alive and his brother strangled himself to death. 

Knowing she won’t get any answers in this stuffy wheelhouse accompanied by a bundled up Arianne and Tyene, she sighs heavily. “Halt!” she orders, the wheelhouse coming to a stop at once. 

The two Dornish women look at her in confusion. Arianne asks, “Dany, what is it?” at the same time Tyene leans forward with a frown, “Princess?” 

“I apologize,” she tells them as she swings the door open. The brisk air slaps her in the face. As she steps out into the mud, she finds herself wondering how she’ll ever get used to such cold weather. “I enjoy the company you both give me,” the words bring puffs of visible air as she speaks, “but I find that I shall like to ride by my brother’s side when we go into the castle gates.”

Arianne’s eyes widened. “Will he allow that?”

Dany smirks. “I have power, remember?” And with that, she closes the door, their shocked faces disappearing behind it. She chuckles before looking at the grey skies with a wide smile. It feels much better to be out here. 

“Dany?” Rhaegar is standing some feet away now; their procession has stopped because of her. “Is there a problem?”

Dusting off her black and red gown and pulling her cloak around her tighter, she approaches him with an easy smile. A few of the men look at her in askance but she pays them no mind. “Why should there be a problem, brother? I only wished to ride by your side.”

The king’s elegant face scrunches up. “Right now?” When she gives him a perfunctory nod, he continues to look mystified. “Dany, we are just almost there — ” he turns and points to a hill, his ruby crown gleaming as he does so, “ — the town is just over there.”

“I am aware of that, Rhaegar,” she responds evenly when he turns back to her. 

They stare at each other, a silent battle of wills. Dany doesn’t blink or move. 

Rhaegar sighs after a moment, scrubbing a hand down his face. Her insides alight. She knows she has won. 

“Your Grace?” comes the voice of Ser Arthur, looking between the two of them dubiously.

“Get the princess a mare, please,” is all that is said before he is trudging back to his stallion.

Sooner rather than later, Dany is all saddled up and ready to go at the king’s right. Viserys scowls at her from Rhaegar’s left. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?” 

She says nothing, only smiling very sweetly in answer. Viserys isn’t impressed. “They’ll think you are some wild, unmannered girl.”

“This is the North,” Dany replies nonchalantly, “no one cares, big brother. And since when did you care what the Starks might think?”

Haughty as ever, Viserys sticks his nose up. “I do not.”

“Enough, you two,” Rhaegar cuts in, looking between the two of them with bemusement. “We mustn’t keep them waiting too long.”

At Rhaegar’s order they resume pace, and she is gladdened that Viserys seems to fall back a little, choosing to converse with Oberyn. She seizes the opportunity.

“Brother?” she calls sweetly. Rhaegar hums in answer, giving her his attention. “How will you plan to spend your time here in the North? I know you haven’t been to Winterfell in many years.”

If Rhaegar suspects she is up to something, he doesn’t say, instead indulging her question. “I plan to see how well the castle is being run and really get a sense on how the North is doing from Lord Stark — why?” 

“And see Jon, of course,” she supplies. “ _And_ marry me off.”

Rhaegar lets out a long suffering sigh. “Dany…”

“No, no, I have accepted my fate,” Rhaegar shoots her an unimpressed glance, looking very much like Viserys in that way. On her part, she is undeterred. “This isn't about me, per say,” she continues.

“Daenerys, please just say what is on your mind before we roll into town. People will be waiting to see us.”

She tried to have tact, but he does have a point. “Very well...is it true that Lord Arryn wants to step down — that you need a new Hand? Are you going to ask Lord Stark?” 

Rhaegar lets out a short laugh, his breath misting in the air. “Court gossip, eh?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” she bites her lip, “but is it true?”

The king is silent for a long while, not speaking until they are just at the bottom of the hill. Her stomach tightens with nerves. Winterfell will be just on the other side. 

Finally, Rhaegar turns to her with a solemn face. “House Targaryen has hurt House Stark in horrible ways. I fear that Lord Stark may say no, and I couldn’t blame him if he did.”

She is stunned. He really _does_ want Lord Stark in the capital. _It is bold_ , she thinks. 

“Rhaegar…” she says softly. “That is…”

He nods. “Yes, I know. And that would make Robb acting Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You would be running the castle, Dany — Lady of Winterfell.” 

_Oh…_ She hadn’t thought of that.

Not sure what to say about that, she is eager to change the subject. Looking over her shoulder, she spies a woman cloaked in all red and frowns.

“Why did you bring _her_ along?” The woman she speaks of means the red priestess of Asshai, Melisandre — a sycophant in Dany’s opinion, and an obvious sorceress. 

She had never really liked the woman ever since she came into Rhaegar’s company one stormy day on Dragonstone. She had mysteriously appeared at the gates, begging for entry, claiming she had much to tell the King of the Seven Kingdoms. She’ll never know why Rhaegar admitted her entry and listened to this strange woman with queer red eyes and a glowing ruby pendant at the base of her neck. 

And she doesn’t know why her brother keeps her around and what they speak of at long hours of the night. Rhaegar usually has good judgment, so maybe the woman has something valuable to offer. 

At least she hopes that’s what it is and not what people whisper about — an improper affair of some sort. If that is the case, Dany had only wished he would’ve gone for someone _not_ well-versed in the arcane arts. 

“Melisandre had simply wished to see the North, as many who have come along with us did. That is all,” he answers smoothly, before kicking his stallion into action. “Now come along.”

She has no choice but to pick up pace and gain momentum over the hill to keep at his side, the steady _clop clop clop_ of the many horses plummet behind her. 

Riding through the little Wintertown is quite odd to her. 

People come out of their homes and inns to watch and stare. Small children point at her, Rhaegar, and Viserys, declaring them wizards for their silver hair and purple eyes. But they fall silent when they encounter the red eyes and scarlet hair of Melisandre, shying away or glaring at the woman suspiciously. 

The North has never taken well to outsiders, she knows this, and the only reason why the Targaryens have been regarded less of a threat (other than the obvious being the Mad King deposed of) is because of Jon — someone who is so clearly influenced by the Warden of their lands. They take special pride in their _Wolf Prince._

Rhaegar gets his due, men and women bow their heads and some even kneel. She can hear the awed whispers of little children _that’s the king!_ and of women who eye with him carnal intent; one claims that she has never seen a man look so pretty in all of her life.

Viserys is huffy and petulant about this. Dany thinks that if he would like to be called pretty, he should tuck his lip in and stop pouting. She doesn’t say that, though. 

She, though, gets called pretty, beautiful. sweet-looking. This, she is used to. Dany is fairly attractive in her opinion, and a princess besides. She has never been without compliment. But she gets a little rosy in the cheeks when a young boy — most likely around the age of ten — runs up to her side and offers her a flower, trying to keep up pace with her moving horse. It is slightly wilted, but white and sweet smelling. 

At once there are guards coming to intervene, loyal old Ser Barristan blocking her from the boy immediately. Ser Arthur throws an unimpressed glance at the boy’s grungy face. 

Dany doesn’t care for this. If she is to live here, she must gain the favor of the people. “Ser Barristan, please move. It is innocent.”

The old knight opens his mouth as if to protest but looks at her face and thinks better of it. He moves, but not before giving the unassuming boy another suspicious glance. To his credit, this boy is undeterred by the intimidation of the white cloaks — and Viserys, who is most likely scowling nastily — and once more sticks out his hand. 

His eyes peer up at her hopefully. She cannot refuse. “Why thank you, ser,” she chirps, taking the flower from his shaky grip. It feels like everyone is watching her as she takes a sniff of the petals. When she pulls the back, she finds the boy staring up at her reverently. This is not new, but it isn’t often when she is looked at this way. Usually those looks are saved for her brothers or Jon. Selfishly, she finds that she likes it. 

And she likes it even more when the boy sighs and tells her, “I’ve never seen anyone like you. Yer a _real_ princess.”

Dany laughs, the sound tinkling like bells in the crisp air. 

“That I am. Tell me, what is your name?”

Wide, blue eyes blink up at her as if he cannot believe that she’d be interested to know. “T-Torrhen, princess.”

“Ah,” comes Rhaegar’s voice from her left, she turns to see him looking between the two of them in amusement. “A strong Stark name. Wonderful.”

“Y-Yes, Yer Grace.”

Dany turns back to the boy — this Torrhen — and smiles. “A strong name for a strong boy, I presume?”

In answer, little Torrhen makes a show of raising an arm and flexing a muscle. Everyone laughs — even Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur. “My, my,” she exclaims, “well, I thank you, Torrhen, for showing me some Northern hospitality.” 

The boy beams at this, and she reaches down to squeeze a gloved hand around his before pulling back and looking to everyone else. “And I thank you all! For coming out to see and welcome us!”

The crowd looks shocked with her speaking to them before they, eventually, look upon her approvingly. She rights herself in the saddle and looks Rhaegar’s way. There is something that gleams in his dark irises but she cannot put a name to it. 

“Ready?” she asks. 

They’re resuming pace once again when Rhaegar gives the order. She gives that sweet little boy one last glance before continuing further down the road, the castle gates just in sight. 

Her heart stammers at the sight of them raised and ready for their arrival. Just on the other side is her future. She feels slightly sick. 

“Relax, Dany,” murmurs Rhaegar in her ear. She whips her head towards him. Her eyes wide and so, so scared. It is starting to truly sink in. Her brother, sweet as ever and attentive, seems to understand this. “He is a good man. I _made_ sure of that.” And there it is. The reason why Dany was never promised to anyone so young. Her brother needed to see that her future husband would be a good man, would be good to _her_. She’s heard the horrors of their father’s cruelty to their mother. And there’s always a certain guilt that creeps into his eyes when Rhaegar speaks of Queen Rhaella. As if he could stop Aerys and all his depravity. “Trust me on this, Dany. Jon adores him.”

And well, that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

So with a final, shuddering breath, Dany nods and says, “I do — trust you, that is.”

Rhaegar reaches over to squeeze her hand, a last comfort, before urging his black stallion forward. Dany follows suit on her grey mare, stomach all knotted up.

When a faint line of people comes into view, Dany forces a smile onto her face. She was raised to be a proper princess. She remembers her niceties. 

The silk black banner of House Targaryen flutters in the wind as they ride through the large iron gates into the main courtyard. Her eyes quickly scan over the many people standing at attention, marveling at just how _big_ the size of their house is. So many servants and working men just for this singular castle. To be granted, Winterfell is larger than the Red Keep. 

They are already kneeling as her horse comes to a halt some feet away. There is only one person who is not taking a knee and her heart skips three beats at the sight of him. 

She manages not to clamber down off her mount like she wishes to and takes Ser Barristan’s offered hand to help her down instead. Rhaegar, for his part, looks entirely too overcome at the tall, dark figure that is Prince Jon Targaryen. 

“Father,” is all that is said before Rhaegar is grabbing his son into a tight hug. Jon huffs out some surprised laughter but hugs back just as fierce. Dany, no matter how fast her heart is leaping, is able to find some peace watching them. 

When the two men break away, Rhaegar claps his hands to Jon’s shoulders — the latter so tall now that he sees eye to eye with his father. Her brother seems to take this in, along with the sprouting beard on the prince’s face before sighing out a, “ _Wow_ …” He shakes his head in disbelief. It’s been nearly six moons. “You seem to change every time I see you again, my son.”

Jon looks a little embarrassed, his eyes skating away from his father’s intensity. They fall on her. He pauses for a moment, and the two of them just look at each other. The air stills. She hasn’t seen him in so long that her chest pangs with longing. Oh, how she does hate to be parted from family.

On the other hand, Jon doesn’t say anything and looks back to Rhaegar. She finds that a bit strange. He could’ve spoken. But so could she…

“Father, it is good to have you here in Winterfell.” His voice is deeper, and it has always been so different from theirs. When he came back from his first fostering in Winterfell, Jon had picked up that Northern brogue and it had been hard to get him to speak as he did before. Rhaegar had him take speech lessons but after a time Jon had said he despised him, and the king gave up altogether. 

It sounds entirely different now, his voice, seeing as though he’s a man grown. 

She feels someone come to her side and turns to see Viserys already glaring at their nephew. If she weren’t in front of the whole Stark house, she’d hit him with her elbow. Hard. 

“Stop it,” she hisses lowly instead. 

He doesn’t. “This is ridiculous. Do you _see_ this place, Dany? This isn’t befitting of a Targaryen.”

“It seems to suit Jon just fine.”

Predictably, Viserys sneers, “He is no true _dragon_.”

Jon chooses then to look their way and when he sees Viserys his eyes darken just a fraction. Their shared antipathy evident in the cold, Northern air. Somehow the winds become colder. 

“Uncle.” He grunts, nodding at the other man. Viserys just scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. She can see thinning patience in just the way Jon’s shoulders bunch together slightly. However, he chooses to pay his haughty uncle no mind and meets her gaze again. “Dany.” 

And gods. She hasn’t heard that in so long. She hopes it isn’t written all over her face. Just how much she missed him. “Jon,” she echoes back, taking a step further, tentatively. 

He stays rooted in place. His face unchanged. “Welcome to Winterfell. The Starks are glad to have you.” And there is something — just _something_ — about the way he says that. He sounds a little biting and it is more pointed than it should be. 

_He knows,_ Dany realizes. She wonders if he is dissatisfied. 

Before she can even think further on that, Jon is motioning to the line of kneeling people behind them. Her eyes fall on a few heads of shining copper hair. “Come and let me introduce you.” 

Dany walks forward, coming to his side in need of comfort. Rhaegar orders them all to stand and immediately goes to a man around his age. The man’s face is hardened and severe. Long with two dark grey eyes that remain unchanged. It startles her just how much he resembles Jon — their hair is even tied back in the same way. There are differences, of course, but Dany thinks that this is what Jon may grow to look like in the future. 

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace,” comes the rough voice of whom she knows to be Lord Eddard Stark. She watches as he shakes hands with Rhaegar, taking in the man who is to be her good-father in the near future. 

“Enough of that, Ned,” chides her brother before Oberyn stalks up in a flourish, grinning widely. Lord Stark visibly darkens. 

Before she hears anything Oberyn has to say, Jon is garnering her attention again with a pull to her arm. He looks at her imploringly. “Dany?”

“Hm?” A beat of silence ensues as his eyes sweep back over to the waiting people — a lady with red hair and charming laugh lines catches her attention. She smiles at her graciously, although there is mirth lingering in the blue of her eyes. Dany straightens. “Oh, yes,” she turns back to Jon with a forced breath, “of course. Lead the way.” 

And it is to that same lady that Jon stops her at first. “Lady Stark, I give you the pleasure of meeting my other aunt, Daenerys.” 

Ah. So this is Catelyn Tully Stark. Dany thinks she is quite beautiful. Even more so when the woman smiles at her warmly. “Princess, it is so lovely to have you in our home. We welcome you. The tales of your beauty don’t do you justice,” and then she bows her head once more before directing a wry grin to her right where someone — a boy - _no, a man_ , Dany corrects herself — stands with their hands behind their back and their chin lifted. 

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep her face still when her eyes fall upon Robb Stark. The fingers of her right hand tighten where they are embedded in Jon’s furs, but gratefully, he does not bring notice to this. All he does is, simply, shift a bit closer into her space. She takes solace in the body heat and is comforted, but only slightly. Robb looks every bit of his Southron mother just as Arianne had mentioned but when he speaks it is with his father’s voice. 

Robb takes a step forward, speaking before Jon can. _A little presumptuous_. 

“Princess Daenerys, thank you for coming to our home,” he says pleasantly, but Dany does not miss the emphasis on the _our_ in that sentence. Her eyes dart up to the forbeding stone of Winterfell around them. How this will ever feel like home, she doesn’t know. “We are pleased to have you here,” and then, shockingly, he leans forward to grab her free hand and presses a light kiss to it. 

Truthfully, she doesn’t mind it; he is handsome, and she is a princess, so it is proper... But it is a little unsettling when she catches how Lady Stark’s eyes gleam with satisfaction at her son, the thin edges of her mouth lifting sneakily. 

Jon clears his throat, the sound loud, intrusive. Robb delicately lets her hand fall and takes the step back. She shifts her knuckles under the leather of her glove. “Aye,” is all he says but it is gruff — and as Dany finds her eyes flashing to her nephew’s hard face — it is also stern. A warning, perhaps? Her lips twitch in amusement. 

It is then that Rhaegar and Lord Stark come back into the picture, the former’s brows raising at the sight of them. “Ah! You two have met, then. Splendid.” Dany shifts out of the way as Rhaegar speaks with Robb and Lady Stark, groaning inwardly as he formally introduces her as _Princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen_. 

Thankfully, Jon lifts a hand and redirects her to the rest of the Stark children who had been watching her encounter with their brother closely. She notices that only one of them has the Stark look. Dany remembers this one being called Arya — Jon’s favorite. When she calls on her, the girl looks surprised for a moment and then launches into how she personally thinks Dany must be how Rhaenys of old truly looked like. 

“She’s always taken a fancy to Aegon, but more to his sisterwives,” Jon whispers into her ear as they watch the girl talk animatedly of how Visenya was twice the swordsman Aegon was. 

Dany giggles softly in return. “Your cousin has good taste.”

“Aye, there’s a reason why I’m her favorite.” She turns to him, surprised at his playful tone. It isn’t often when he speaks this way, to her even less over the years. 

She takes this moment to study her nephew appraisingly. The fine leather of his gambeson, the plush furs that rest on his wide shoulders, the sword that’s sheathed at his left. He even wore his silver coronet today — with leaping wolves and snarling dragons that circle his raven head. Finally, she says, “I suppose she does,” and when Jon looks at her questioningly, she adds with a toothy grin, “have good taste, that is.”

The air is unchanging, stilling, as Jon looks at her — stares, really. Her breath catches a bit, a rosy sort of something coming to her cheeks as he tilts his head. His eyes glitter, even under the overcast grey of the Winterfell sky. Dany thinks that the color matches his eyes. 

“ _Jon_ ,” comes a scoff from a younger image of Lady Stark. This must be Sansa. “Are you not going to introduce me?” 

“Yeah! Yeah! Introduce me to the pretty lady!” That’s the youngest, Rickon, she remembers faintly. 

The winds blow again, and that moment — whatever it was — is gone when Jon blinks in what she imagines as disbelief and turns away from her to give his attention to his cousins. 

Dany exhales. 

After she is properly introduced to the rest of the Starks, Arianne sidles next to her as they watch Stark and Targaryen men interact freely. “Nothing will be the same, will it,” Dany says dully, a little drained after having met the younger Stark boys. 

“I don’t believe so. No.” 

She turns to the other woman, clutching onto her hand. Arianne is quick to squeeze back, even if she laughs and says, “You look as if you are walking to your death. This is only the beginning for you, Dany. You will be brought good fortune. Do not fret.” 

These are words she would like to believe, but she looks at Robb Stark and his handsome wide grin, and then at Rhaegar talking in hushed tones with Lord Stark as they walk away in the chilled air, and then lastly, she finds Viserys, accompanied by Oberyn and a ‘shy’ Tyene, scowling devilishly at it all, his eyes nearly black with contempt. 

“What if there is bad — only bad things to come?” she croaks quietly, still so unsure. 

“There will be good _and_ bad. But you are Daenerys of House Targaryen, and if anything, good or bad, you will endure. There is no other way.”

So, Daenerys Targaryen can look back at this moment — in the middle of Winterfell, in the heart of the North — and say _this_ is when her life changed, but right then, in the moment, even with all the world’s doubts on her shoulders, she truly did not have a clue. 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, leave a comment and tell me what you think. 
> 
> (Also, sidenote: I am not sure if anyone truly cared but if you happened to have been interested in one of previous works, I Go Where You Go, I am afraid to tell you that I still have no plans to post anything on that, I’m afraid. However, I hope that you like this! And I thank you so much for putting up with me! ❤️)
> 
> Until next time, signing off! If you’d like to reach me on something other than here, my quite inactive tumblr is victorybraid and even though I haven’t posted there for quite a while, I still check it from time to time, so please give me a shout! ❤️🖤


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